


wreck me

by julesmpm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Love, Ratings may change, Tags aren't my forte, they deserve happiness, we're boarding the feels express
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-06-22 08:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julesmpm/pseuds/julesmpm
Summary: in which Gendry and Arya love, and love, and love.a collection of fluffy one shot/drabbles inspired by endlessly-ranting-antheia's tumblr list "things that ships do that wreck me"





	1. forehead touches

**Author's Note:**

> Hey loves!
> 
> I've really been itching to write some good old AU Gendrya fluff, and today I came across this post (https://endlessly-ranting-antheia.tumblr.com/post/185881343878/things-that-ships-do-that-wreck-me) and I decided that I wanted to write lil ficlets for each of these things because you can never have too much Gendrya fluff, I've decided.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

1\. **forehead touches**

“Dance with me.”

She blinks, pulls herself out of her trance and twists her neck to look back at him.

They’ve basically combined their seats together, legs propped on what was once Arya’s sole chair so that she leans into his chest, his arm draped over her shoulder and fingers tracing patterns on her exposed forearm.

She really has to crane her neck to look back at him, and he almost snorts when he catches a glimpse of how her eyebrows are pulled together in obvious indignation.

“Dance?” Her nose scrunches as she speaks, and he has to resist the urge to kiss it. “Why would we dance when we’re so comfortable right here?”

There’s a flush to her cheeks, courtesy of red wine from the open bar, and he could swear that she’s practically glowing, all rosy hues and pouted lips.

“It’s your sister’s wedding.” He hums, letting his lips graze her ear. “I think she might kill us both if we don’t at least stand and sway.”

They both glance back towards the dance floor, where bride and groom are wrapped so tightly in one another that in Gendry’s state (he can’t lie, he’s been drinking too) it’s almost entirely impossible to decipher whose limb belongs to who.

Sansa looks an absolute vision, fiery hair in loose curls that cascade down her shoulders and erupt like flames against the white lace of her dress and Theon is looking at her like she is the sun and the moon and every star in the sky all at once, as though his world has been tilted on its axis and now rotates just for her.

Arya shifts against his chest, wraps an slender arm around his torso, and he knows _exactly_ how Theon feels.

“Sansa seems otherwise occupied at the moment.” She settles her head back, ear against his heart. “Besides, I don’t know how to dance. I can barely walk in these heels anyways.”

He tightens an arm around her waist and pulls her up with him as he stands, ignoring her surprised squeak of protest. Even as dead weight, she’s still like an absolute pixie.

“It’s barely a tango, Arya. When I say stand and sway, I mean it. That’s all I know how to do.” He steadies her on her stilettos, keeps a firm grasp on both shoulders because he knows the alcohol makes her unsteady when her feet are flat on the ground, much less when there’s a solid seven inches between her heels and the floor. “And I’ll make sure you don’t fall. Or, at least, you can drag me down with you when you do.”

She snorts at that and rolls her eyes, but her hand moves to join his on her shoulder and her fingers intertwine with his.

“ _Fine_. One song.” She huffs, and it’s his turn to laugh and she turns and positively stomps towards the centre of the reception. If she had been any heavier, he swears that her heels would’ve drilled right into the floor.

She pulls him to the middle of crowd, swerving past guests and avoiding the nearly spilled cocktails she leaves in her wake. When she reaches her distance, she twirls around and joins her hands at the back of his neck, as his find unity at her lower back.

The song is slow, fuzzy, something he can’t quite decipher, but it doesn’t matter. It couldn’t matter less.

They begin to sway, ever so slowly, and he makes a mental note to thank Sansa profusely for her choice of Arya’s dress. He bears no issue to her normal ragged jeans and collection of t-shirts (and he bears even less issue when it comes to taking them off) but the dress that she’s tolerating for the sake of her sister is nothing less than otherworldly. It’s a deep blue, thin straps, low v, and it hugs her torso so tightly, so perfectly, that it could be an extension of herself. The skirt ripples as she moves, like silk waves of a tide washing in, and it doesn’t strike him as anything but pure magic.

The bride is a vision, of course, but Arya is his.

He is so fucking lucky.

She looks up at him, stardust in her eyes, radiance in a human form, and his smile grows, wan and wide across his face.

“What?” Her mouth moves into a smirk, and he can’t help but pull her closer.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” She flushes pink at his words, the heat joining what the wine has already pulled from her. “Like, I don’t even know how you’re real. At all.”

The smirk spreads, and he can see her features soften.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot.” Her laughter is like the tinkle of bells, and her hands move to cup his face. “This isn’t so bad, is it? Swaying?”

“It’s not.” She agrees, and he decides that he really, really likes her stilettos just this once because he barely has to bend to press his lips to hers, tightens his hold and closing the gap between them.

Her reciprocation is immediate, and she tastes like red wine and spices and something sweet that he knows they shared for dessert, and _he is so lucky_.

Their lips detach, but she’s cradling the back of his head so that their foreheads stay connected, warm and electric and whole.

They sway to the music, breath hot on each other’s lips, and Gendry thinks that if this were it, if this was the last thing he’d ever do, he wouldn’t be upset at all.


	2. hugs

**2\. hugs**

She hates airports. Always has, always will.

It’s not that she doesn’t like travelling; quite the opposite, actually. She would spend all her days exploring every corner of the world if she could. But there’s something about the destination before the destination, with its long hallways and neck pillows that really seems to rub her the wrong way.

And the goodbyes. She hates goodbyes, loathes them, and the airport is perpetually full of them. It’s like she can feel them sitting in the air, thick and looming.

Maybe that’s part of the reason why her foot won’t stop tapping.

She crosses her arms tightly across her chest, squints over at the arrivals gate and tries to catch every face that walks through the archway.

He had texted her eight minutes ago that his plane had landed, a fairly smooth flight with only a touch of turbulence, and that he couldn’t wait to see her and hold her close.

Years ago, if someone had told Arya that a text from her boyfriend would be able to turn her legs into complete jelly, she would’ve scoffed before promptly socking the perpetrator in the shoulder.

Now, well, things have shifted just slightly.

Although it would take her a couple drinks and a few carefully crafted questions to get her to admit it.

She cranes her neck, straining to see above the crowds, and there’s suddenly a very familiar closely cut head of hair present in her direct line of vision.

The part of her that wishes to remain cool, to put her hand up and wave and wait for him to come to her is immediately trampled by the overwhelming urge to feel him, be pressed up against him.

So she takes off, winds between people and suitcases and children clutching onto their parent’s hands until he’s _there_ , right in front of her, only a few feet separating them.

“ _Arya_.”

She barely hears her name because she’s absolutely flung himself at him, practically leaps across the floor and wraps her legs around his torso.

He catches her (of course he does; he always does) with practiced arms, one wrapping around her back to grip the middle of her thigh while the other keeps a hold of his luggage. She can feel his smile against her neck and she inhales, breathing him and his warm, spiced scent in.

It’s stupid, absolutely ridiculous, how much she missed him.

“Hey.” His words are syrup against her skin, and she pulls her torso away from his, only to dive back into him, lips crashing into lips. He kisses her back eagerly, no hesitation, nose bumping gently against hers, and it’s her turn to smile.

“Entirely too long.” The words are whispered against his teeth, and her arms are woven up and around his neck as tightly as they possibly could be because he’s gone and bought a fucking _neck pillow_ and has proceeded to wear it _off of the plane_ and she can’t believe she’s head over heels for a man who’s such an absolute fucking dork. “Next time I’m coming with. Your boss can suck my dick if he disagrees.”

His laughter echoes, rings through the crowds and the arrival gate.

“Agreed.” She untangles her legs and stands back on the ground, but stays just as close to him as when she was straddling him. If anything, his arm tightens so that she’s somehow even closer than before. “FaceTime really doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing.”

Her arms lower to wrap around his torso, and she juts her chin into his chest, so her eyes are filled with him and only him.

He looks right back down at her, kisses where her hair and forehead meet, and it’s so warm, so tender, that she could just absolutely fucking melt here in the airport and no one would be the wiser.

“I missed you.” His voice is lower now, more intimate than before, and she smiles up at him, all sun and stars and utter bliss.

“I missed you too.” Her eyes lower slightly to the neck pillow, and she lets an eyebrow raise ever so slightly. “Although, if you don’t take that thing off the moment we leave this terminal, I’m breaking up with you.”

He lets his jaw drop, feigning absolute shock, and she positively _giggles_.

“Neck pillow stays _on_ during sex, Arya. Basic knowledge.” Her eyes widen as she lets out a hearty full-bodied laugh. “Take it or leave it.”

“I guess you’re walking home from the airport, then.” He rolls his eyes, and she tilts her head, places it sideways just below his collarbone, and lets her eyes close, ever so briefly.

His thumb is tracing circles against her lower back, so slow and methodic that she could forget that they were in the middle of one of her least favourite places to be.

At least when he’s against her, it’s not half as bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck man, writing fluffy Gendrya is so FUN.
> 
> Feel free to leave prompts/thoughts down below! 
> 
> xoxo


	3. hand holding

**3\. hand holding**

She’s his date, and his mind is numb.

It was weeks ago that he had mentioned this fundraiser dinner thing as she pulled a slice of leftover pizza out from his (his!) fridge. She hadn’t even batted an eye, had plopped herself down next to him on the couch where they’d been watching an episode of Stranger Things.

“Sounds fun.” She’d said, biting into her (his!) slice and leaning into his open arm. “Sounds fancy.”

“It is fancy. Black tie. Steak and asparagus.” He had cleared his throat, scrunching his eyebrows and moving his eyes to the screen. “I’m supposed to bring someone.”

If he didn’t know her oh so very well, he probably wouldn’t have noticed the way her body tensed for just a moment before releasing again.

“I doubt that it’s company policy to have apprentices bring a mandatory date.” Her words were cool as she took another bite.

“Never said anything about a date.” He hadn’t even had to see her face to know that she was blushing. “Besides, it’d be fun. You just said it sounded fun.”

“Yeah, well.” Her words had been a grumble. “That was before you had asked me to come with you.”

“Assumptions, assumptions. I was actually planning on asking Sansa, do you think she’d want to come?”

Her braid had whipped across her back as she turned to look right at him, pizza landing right on the center of his chest with a smack.

“Black tie, you said?” He had nodded, tried desperately to conceal the smile that was itching to make its way across his mouth. “Does that mean I get to tear you out of a tuxedo or a three-piece suit?”

“Tux. Complete with a bowtie.”

She had raised an eyebrow at that, and he could see the cogs turning in her brain.

“Fine.” Her response was low, and she grabbed the pizza off of his shirt. “I’ll be your date. As long as I get to pull the bowtie off myself.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Stark.”

“Yeah, and you love it.”

She’s right. He does.

He decides to drive in lieu of drinking, wants to stay presentable and sturdy in front of his uppers, and immediately regrets it as soon as he arrives at her apartment to pick her up and sees her practically _gliding_ down the stairs, in a sleeveless black jumpsuit that dips _way_ down in both the front and the back and her hair piled on the top of her head, shoulders bare but for the few soft tendrils that frame her face.

He immediately wishes that he had opted for an Uber so he could have both hands free in the back of the car, right next to her.

She climbs into the passenger seat, leans across to press her lips to his, and he doesn’t know how they’re going to last the whole fundraiser without some sort of obscenity.

_Fucking black tie_.

“You look…wow.”

She smirks, and she’s even got on that bright red lipstick that she saves specifically for very special occasions and god, he can barely _breathe_.

“Keep it in your pants, Baratheon.” Her eyes flit over him, a clinical examination of his attire, and she reaches up and straightens his bowtie. “You clean up pretty nice too.”

“We don’t have to go to this thing, you know.” Her hand lingers on his chest, fingers dusting over his collarbone. “I could tell them I’m sick, or you’re sick, and I can’t bear to leave your side until I’ve fully nursed you back to health. Go to my place instead.”

Her smirk deepens, and she leans in to kiss him again.

“As so very tempting as that is,” She leans back, snaps the seatbelt in place. “I think I’m actually in the mood for some finger food and small talk with my boyfriend’s colleagues. It even sounds, dare I say it? Sort of fun?”

He smiles at that, wonders how her red lipstick is still so very in place after kissing him _twice_.

“Sort of fun it is.”

* * *

It turns out that Arya is ridiculously good at small talk.

She mingles with his work friends, laughing and sipping champagne and listening to them go on tangents about sculpture work and the importance of the event and all the other things that he would’ve expected her to roll her eyes at.

But she’s genuinely interested, nodding and eyes brightening.

All the while, her fingers are intertwined with his.

He notices the way a few of his coworkers smile in their direction, and he couldn’t be happier to have such a beautiful, kind, intelligent woman holding his hand.

She’s flaunting him too, he can tell; the way she keeps referring to him as hers and how she won’t loosen her grip on him, not for a single second.

She wants to make sure that everyone in the room knows that they are each other’s, and he has never been more fine with a sentiment.

It’s been nearly an hour before he pulls her away from the group that’s gathered, promises to have her back in a couple minutes, and leads her to a sculpture in the centre of the gallery. It’s of a wolf rearing on its hind legs, almost as though it’s ready to take flight instead of leap, and he pulls her close, wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“Okay, this is my favourite one so far.” She squints, looking at the detailing of the fur without straying from him. “Everyone here is so fucking talented. Not fair.”

And her eyes float to the stand next to the sculpture, with the auction price and the description and the name of the artist.

She looks back up at him, eyes lit with complete, near childlike wonder.

“This is yours?” He nods, and his heart is so full it’s nearly spilling over the brim. She puts her champagne flute down and uses both hands to cup his face. “You didn’t tell me you had a piece in the show!”

“I didn’t.” He agrees, sneaks in a kiss to her brow before reaching up and taking her hands in his. “Thought it might be a fun surprise.”

“And you nearly made us ditch this to have sex at your place.” There’s nothing accusatory about her tone. “What the fuck, Gendry. I didn’t even know you were working on something this massive!”

He shrugs, looks back at his sculpture.

“I didn’t know if it would turn out how I wanted it.” It did. It really did.

She turns to face the piece again, detaching one hand and placing it to hold onto his bicep.

“It’s insane. You’re insane.” He laughs, and she rests her cheek against his shoulder. “I am so proud of you. So unbelievably proud.”

His heart absolutely bursts.

And she doesn’t let go of his hand for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the response to this fic! I'm having the time of my life writing it, to be honest.
> 
> I also planned on these chapters being fairly short, but eh...we'll really see where the wind takes us with that one.


	4. that look of awe

**4\. that look of utter awe**

She’s nestled in his arms, fits as perfectly as if she was crafted specifically for the crook of his elbow.

He knows that she fits just as entirely into Arya’s hold, and he really doesn’t mind that she’s a puzzle piece made for the two of them.

It’s quiet now, lights dim and curtains open so that the blush of dusk paints the room a gentle pink. He’s up on her bed, the guest chair long forgotten in the corner, and Arya’s head is resting on his shoulder, eyes fixated solely on their daughter.

Their daughter.

He can’t even think about it without the stupidest, goofiest grin appearing on his face.

If she had caught a glimpse of his face, she’d probably laugh and reach up and try to physically wipe it from his face, calling him dopey and saying that maybe, one day, his face would freeze like that forever.

But she’s not looking at him. She hasn’t looked at him since the little girl was placed in her arms.

He’s spending his time moving his gaze between the two of them, and he can’t decide what he loves more; looking at their daughter, or looking at Arya as she watches their daughter.

He’s never seen her so enraptured with something, never seen her look as though everything has left her mind but for the one thing in front of her, and now, as she gazes with wide eyes and her hand tightens against his arm, he knows that it’s a look he wants to see on her face again and again and again.

She’s a mother now.

She’s a mother, and it suddenly makes all the sense in the world.

“She’s so little.” Her voice is weary yet so bright, and he shifts the baby so that he can put an arm around her, giving her room to settle on top of his shoulder. “She barely even seems real.”

“You’re little, too.” She smiles at that, lifts her hand and places the softest finger to their daughter’s cheek.

“Guess it makes sense, then.”

“Guess it does.”

They’re both a little shell-shocked, he can tell, but he also isn’t bothered by it.

Not when they have this healthy, happy, perfect little girl sleeping in his grasp.

“I didn’t call Sansa.” She nearly snorts at his words. “I think she’s going to murder us.”

“Murder _you_ , you mean. I was slightly preoccupied.” She lets out a gentle breath, thumb tracing miniscule circles on their daughter’s forehead. “And you can just hold her and Sansa won’t touch you. Easy.”

“Using our girl as a defense mechanism already?”

“Do you want Sansa to slit your throat?” She counters, but there’s no malice in her words.

The baby stirs in his arms, and it’s like a switch is flipped in her mind, and her arms are out.

“Give her here. My turn.”

There’s no use in fighting her (not that he would, anyways; they’ve got the rest of their lives with her), and so he ever-so-gently shifts the baby into Arya’s arms, the warmth in his chest growing as she settles her against her chest, presses her lips to the crown of the girl’s head.

He didn’t mean to not call Sansa; he had fully intended on contacting her the moment everything began. But nothing had prepared either of them for how quickly everything would move, how scary things would seem, how much they’d need each other, and how suddenly, immediately and inexplicably their lives would change.

Sansa hadn’t even been present in his thoughts during the haze. All he had been able to fixate on was Arya.

Arya, and the way she’d pursed her lips together on the car ride to the hospital.

Arya, and her tiny little body that the doctors had warned them would make delivery even more difficult than the average birth.

Arya, and the way she held his hand so tightly through everything, never once cursing him or calling him names or anything else that he had somewhat expected her to throw at him.

Arya, and the way she held their miraculous, healthy, screaming child to her chest with all the love she could ever give.

He’s been in awe of her before, more times than he can count, but this…

This has reached new heights of awe.

The little girl yawns, scrunches her nose and her forehead and her chin all at once, and Arya laughs, resting a hand atop her tiny chest.

“New world makes you sleepy, hey?” Her voice is lighter than he’s ever heard it, and he tightens his arm around her shoulder, pulls them both in just a little closer. “You know, I always thought your dad would be my favourite person in the world, but now it looks like he may have some competition.”

He knows there’s no competition. Arya loves him, he knows, but this is a new kind of love.

He feels it too.

She shifts slightly, and he doesn’t miss the wince, the grimace that momentarily clouds her features. It’s easy to forget, in the wake of all this joy, in the blissful state that they’re both in, that she still has quite a bit of healing to do.

“You okay? Need anything?” She shakes her head, looks up at him for the first time since their daughter was born.

“All I need is her and you.” And she pauses, looks back down at the little girl that has changed their orbit forever. “That’s all I need for the rest of my life, I think.”

He kisses her forehead.

“I think so too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was self-indulgent as FUCK ladies and gents. I swear I'm going to get a toothache from all this sugary-sweet Gendrya I'm writing.


	5. snuggles

**5\. snuggles**

Whatever had possessed them to move the week before Christmas, Arya didn’t have a single clue.

Their apartment is nearly empty, save for the boxes stacked against the walls, a worn in burgundy couch and a small, fake Christmas tree that Gendry had insisted they needed upon move-in day.

“We can’t just ignore the first holiday in our new home.” He’d argued when she’d rolled her eyes and reminded him that they had come to the grocery store for bananas and toothpaste only. “That has to be some sort of bad luck. We don’t want our place to be cursed from day one, do we?”

Now, she really rather likes the soft light that the tree omits from its perch in the corner of the living room. Although she’d never admit it to him; she doesn’t just give out satisfaction that easily.

It’s Christmas Eve, and they’ve spent the day starring at boxes that seemed to stare right back at them, as if daring them to pull off the tape and start the next phase of unpacking. The idea was clearly unappealing to both of them, as they used most of their time distracting each other; Gendry’s lips on her neck and her hand tugging his belt buckle had proven to both be stellar catalysts of procrastination.

“Besides,” She’d said, as they lay breathless on the floor beside one another (the arrival of the movers with their bed will be a Christmas miracle in itself). “We’re just leaving tomorrow anyways. It’d be stupid to make it messy and then just leave.”

They’re heading to spend the holidays with her family, which will be a welcome break to procrastinating at home and instead procrastinating at her sister’s house.

So their day is lax, leading to him ordering thai food and her stirring the last of the rum into some sort of boozy eggnog concoction. They set up her laptop on a stack of boxes (her idea) and turn on a collection of holiday movies (his idea) and situate themselves on the couch.

She’s learned, in the years that she’s known him, that alcohol has the ability to make Gendry the clingiest she’s ever seen him, so she’s not at all surprised when two glasses of eggnog and halfway through A Charlie Brown Christmas in, he’s literally lying on top of her, arms wrapped around her torso and ear pressed against her chest.

Sometimes, she hates when he gets so snuggly. Sometimes it makes her feel claustrophobic and she has to swat him away, telling him to order a body pillow that didn’t _need_ to breathe.

Other times, like today, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

He’s warm (which is incredibly convenient considering their apartment is currently _fucking_ freezing) and there’s something about the way he holds her, how he’s so gentle and yet has her pulled so close to him, that makes her feel this sense of security that is unique to him.

It’s stupid, because it’s _Gendry_ and she knows that she can defend herself just fine on her own, but it’s comforting when he’s around and has her pressed against him.

“Charlie Brown never does catch a fucking break.” His words are slightly slurred, and she smiles, moves a rogue hair from one side of his forehead to the other.

“He really doesn’t.” Her hand moves to his back, rubs it softly, and his face breaks into a sweet, dopey, drunk smile.

“Would you sleep with Charlie Brown?” She lets out a laugh that sounds more like a bark, because of _course_ he would ask something like this. “Like, for pity?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t do pity sex.” He nods at that, hair tickling the bottom of her chin, and she smiles too. “Besides, I have my own blockhead already. That role is already filled.”

“Does your family know you’re dating a blockhead?”

“Well, they know I’m dating you.” She presses her lips together, pretends to ponder the idea. “I guess I’ll just have to let them know about that add on tomorrow.”

His mouth drops open, and she has to stifle her laughter.

“You’re going to ruin Christmas!”

“I’m not the one who chose to be a fucking blockhead.” He raises his eyebrows at that.

“Maybe not, but you _did_ choose to be fucking a blockhead.”

She smacks him gently on the top of the head.

“Shut up and watch the movie.”

He smirks but obliges, moves his head up so that it’s resting right under her own. She settles her chin to the crown, goes back to making lazy circles on his back with her palm.

It’s Christmas Eve, and she can’t think of anywhere better to be than in her empty apartment with her tipsy boyfriend providing her with warmth.

In fact, it’s kind of perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it July? Yes. Did I write about Christmas? Absolutely.
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your lovely responses!! You're all the bomb dot com.


	6. smiling between kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tayaboo72 requested a prompt similar to what this became when I was writing it, so I guess the creative gods were meddling a little with my mind. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!

**6\. smiling between kisses**

Nymeria is in love with Gendry.

Her big, ferocious, _guard dog_ husky has been wagging her tail from the moment they set foot in her apartment, sniffing Gendry’s outstretched hand and immediately running circles around them, as happy as if Arya had just offered a walk.

Gendry, of course, is laughing as she pouts, kneels down so that her dog’s snout is equal with her nose.

“You’re supposed to _protect_ me, girl.” Nymeria answers her grumblings with a messy lick to the cheek, and Arya can’t even hold her ground, faux anger dissipating as the dog sits and puts her paw onto her knee.

“Ferocious, you said.” She turns her head, and he’s got his arms crossed, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Scarier than all of my brothers combined. An unmatched beast.”

She scowls at him.

“She _is_ a beast.” Nymeria nudges her hand with her nose, and her fingers begin to scratch the top of her dog’s head of their own accord. “Usually if I bring anyone home she at least growls.”

“Growls?” He laughs again, eyes fixated on the husky. “From what you were saying, I would’ve thought she’d be trying to tear my head off.”

“We were even holding hands when we came in.” She sighs and Nymeria licks her under her chin. “Usually she goes ballistic if someone is even just standing too close to me. She nearly pulled Jon over when he met her for the first time.”

His eyebrows are still raised, and he kneels next to her, offers his hand out to her dog again.

It’s almost comical how instantaneously she goes to him, barely sniffing before putting her paws on his shoulders and trying to lick every inch of his face that she could reach.

She tried to deepen her scowl, but he’s laughing and rubbing Nymeria behind her ears and smiling at her and she knows that she can’t stop an identical one from spreading across her face.

“You’ve broken my guard dog.” She narrows her eyes accusingly, but the smile is still painted across her face.

Nymeria takes her paws from Gendry’s shoulders and instead puts them right in his lap.

“You’ve never needed a guard dog.”

He’s right. She never has.

* * *

They decide to watch a movie, and Nymeria’s head doesn’t leave Gendry’s lap the whole time.

She’s a rescue, has been subject to abuse that breaks Arya’s heart every time she thinks about it, and is normally incredibly timid or aggressive when meeting new people. Especially men.

It’s safe to say how surprising it was that Gendry seems to be the sole exception.

Surprising, but fitting nonetheless.

He’s got his arm around her, and she leans into his chest, reaching over to scratch her dog between the ears.

“You two are well matched.” His voice is soft, and she smiles as Nymeria’s ears perk up as he speaks. She nods.

“I think so.” Her hand moves from the husky’s head to rest on his thigh, and she looks back up at him. “I think we are too.”

His smile brightens, and he leans down to press his lips to hers.

Nymeria barks.

Their lips part, smiles lingering, and Arya laughs.

“So now you’ve got an issue with him?” She kisses him again, and Nymeria barks again, sits up and nuzzles her snout in between them.

They’re both laughing now, and her dog joins in, barking at their outbursts while still nudging at both of them with her nose.

“I don’t know if she agrees.” Gendry says, pulling her close with one hand and petting Nymeria with the other. “I think she might just want you for herself.”

“I think she might just want _you_ for herself.” She counters, and looks her dog dead in the eyes. “Too bad, girl. You’re stuck with both of us for now.”

Nymeria leans and licks her right on the nose.


	7. eye-fucking (i)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've divided this one up into two separate parts because I was just having too much fun writing this one. Here's the first of them!

**7\. eye-fucking (i)**

There are three things of which Gendry is absolutely certain.

First, that Theon’s apartment has way too many people currently inhabiting it for it not to be considered a fire hazard.

Second, that he should never _ever_ let Margaery Tyrell mix him one of her ‘signature cocktails’ again.

And third, Arya Stark has not taken her eyes off of him since they caught him in the early hours of the party.

He noticed unintentionally, at the beginning. He’d be playing a round of beer pong or talking to someone or taking a drink and he’d spot her grey eyes, following him with the precision of a hawk.

But she’s not just looking at him; he probably wouldn’t be so attuned to it if she was just glancing over.

She’s literally _undressing him with her eyes_.

He’s seen the look before; the lust that acts like both a glaze and a lens, the subtle raise of an eyebrow, the chin dipped down and head cocked to one side; he _knows_ this look.

However, it’s not a look he knows coming from his roommate’s youngest sister.

His best friend’s _baby sister_.

She’s not a baby anymore; that’s a fourth thing that he knows for sure, tonight. She’s not the girl that used to chase him and Jon around and demand to be included in bike races and hikes and climbing trees. In fact, there’s a part of him that wants to lend her his jacket, to cover up the low-cut bodysuit and black leather pants that she’s decided was a fantastic idea to don tonight.

There’s a larger part of him that wants to get rid of the bodysuit in a very, _very_ different way.

She’s directly across the room from him, leaning against the kitchen counter with eyes unwavering, and when he looks at her, she _licks her lips_ before taking a sip of her drink.

His eyes go to the ceiling.

“Head in the clouds, Waters?” He brings his eyes back down, and Theon’s beside him, drinking something that smells heavily of coconut rum. “Or did someone draw something on my roof again?”

It’s absolutely ridiculous how he’s looking at Theon and yet he can feel the heat of Arya’s stare right through his clothing, a burning, pulsating feeling that won’t stop following him no matter where he goes and no matter what he drinks.

“Who’s the girl?” His next question is like a jolt to the spine, and he nearly spills his drink.

“What girl?” But Theon’s got this wan smile spread across his face, and Gendry can nearly _hear_ the heat rising in his.

“C’mon, mate. I’m not an idiot.” Theon sips his drink, eyes scanning the party, and Gendry could _die_. “Anyone with one good eye could see you pining. Which one is she? Maybe I can put in a good word—”

“ _No_.” Like she’d need any encouragement. “She’s…she’s off limits.”

Theon scrunches his nose.

“With someone else?”

He shakes his head, and while doing so makes accidental eye contact with her again. She’s got her lips pursed together, lower jutting into the smallest pout, and he hates that he wants to kiss that infuriating pout right off of her mouth.

“Oh. _Oh_.” And he’s suddenly very, painfully aware of how she’s held his gaze for a moment too long, and that the annoyingly apt Theon Greyjoy has absolutely followed his sightline right to her.

Theon lets out a loud laugh.

“You want to fuck _Arya Stark_.” It feels like his voice reverberates around the entire room, even though he’s kept it low enough that they’re the only two who can comprehend it. “Or, by the looks of it, Arya Stark wants to fuck _you_.”

“She’s off limits.” Gendry echoes his words from before, takes a gulp of his beer. “Jon would kill me. Like slow torture, drawn out death murder.”

“Does she know that?” Theon raises his own eyebrow, looks back at her. “Because she’s looking at you like you’re a tasty slice of meat she’s ready to devour—”

“I _know_.” Gods, he sounds fucking miserable. “She’s been looking at me like that all night. Why the fuck would she do that?”

“Because she wants to have sex with you, dumbass.” He could punch Theon.

“I’ve known her since she was a _kid_.”

“You were a kid too. And now we’re all consenting adults. In fact, by that look, I bet she’s more than consenting. I bet she’s—”

“She’s Jon’s _baby sister_.”

“I bet she’d kill you if she heard you call her that.”

“It doesn’t make it any less true.”

“It wouldn’t be bothering you so much if you didn’t want her too, you know.”

He’s right. Gendry _hates_ that he’s right.

He wishes that Arya Stark with her big grey eyes and her bodysuit and her licking lips and her older brother Jon would just _leave him alone_ so maybe, just maybe, he could stop thinking about taking her to the nearest bathroom and fucking her senseless.

In fact—

“I’m going to go tell her.”

Theon blinks.

“Tell her what?”

“To stop eye-fucking me.”

And without another word, he downs his drink, shoves the empty cup into Theon’s hand, and makes a beeline for Arya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews make my heart grow fonder and my resolve grow stronger.


	8. eye-fucking (ii)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 baby ;)

**8\. eye-fucking (ii)**

It takes _so_ long for him to finally move towards her.

She hasn’t exactly been subtle; in fact, subtle is probably the last word she’d label her actions as. But she’s not patient, has never been patient, and so there’s no way in hell she’s trying to play any sort of waiting game.

It’s not her fault Gendry Waters had to go and get hotter at university.

It’s not her fault he’s always been nice to her, never made her feel like she was just Jon’s little sister tagging along and more like she was an actual human being.

Maybe even a friend.

When she gets to Theon’s and he’s there, cheeks rosy from booze and a grin wide as he sinks a ball into a pong opponent’s cup and she can feel her heart thrum in her chest and a warmer, deeper thrum down further, she decides then and there exactly how she’s going to spend her evening.

There are many worse ways to spend a night than starring at Gendry Waters and sipping a gin and tonic, that’s for sure.

So she does just that, sips and stares and relishing in the moments when he looks back, flushed and confused. She doesn’t even pretend to not know what she’s doing.

Gendry’s always looked good, to her. He’d look good to anyone with eyes. It’s not hard to let her imagination run rampant as she takes him all in, takes in every difference from when he left to study the history of metalwork to this point, this party. He’s got this new burn, right in the middle of his forearm, still pink and puckered and fresh.

She’ll have to ask him about it when she’s not so busy making eyes at him.

He’s right across from her when they lock eyes for what seems like the hundredth time, and she takes extra care to drag her tongue across her bottom lip before going in for another sip of her drink. He shifts his gaze rapidly from her to the roof, and she wonders if he knows just how pink he’s going.

It’s not until after Theon and Gendry exchange what looks to be terse words that he downs his drink and finally _finally_ makes his way in her direction. Her lips raise into a satisfied smirk behind her cup, and it’s like every step he takes towards her, there’s a persistent nudge in her core.

He reaches her quickly, comes less than an arms width from her, and she raises an eyebrow.

He’s still quite pink, and she’ll pretend it’s solely due to the drink he downed in the moments preceding. He’s gotten taller, somehow, so she really has to tilt her head up in order to maintain eye contact despite the distance between them.

“You’ve got to stop that.” He keeps his voice low, as though he’s trying to harbor some sort of secret, and she smirks, takes a sip.

“Stop what?” She blinks, an overly coy action that she would normally look down on, but she’s having _fun_.

He grows even pinker, frustration tinging on his features, and she makes a mental note that somehow, by some grace of the gods, Gendry is even sexier when he’s just a little angry.

“ _This_.” He flails his hand at her to illustrate some sort of point. “Stop eyeing me down like you want to tear my clothes off the moment you get close enough.”

She lifts her cup back to her lips, eyebrows even. Well done, Waters. You _have_ been catching on.

“And why should I?” She throws back the remainder of her drink with a toss of her head, and places it on the counter behind her.

Now there’s nothing between them but Gendry’s indignant spluttering.

“People are going to get the wrong idea!”

She tilts her head to one side.

“What wrong idea would that be, Waters?” And he’s close enough that she reaches and hooks her fingers around the belt loops of his jeans. He takes a sharp inhale, hands grabbing her wrists, but he doesn’t move to push her away. “That I’d actually much rather spend my evening with you inside me then being unable to breathe in this crowd at Theon’s? That I would really, _deeply_ appreciate it if you turned me around and fucked me against this counter? I don’t know about you, but those seem like the right idea to me.”

“ _Arya_.” His voice has gone husky, eye dilated, and he _still hasn’t pushed her away_.

“ _Gendry_.” She imitates his demeanor, but the thrum between her legs has only gotten stronger, pulsing and echoing up to her ears.  


As much as she would never admit it, she is as much in the palm of his hand as he is in hers.

“I can’t just be a one night stand.” His eyes are moving almost frantically, fervent glances from her eyes to her hips to whatever the low cut of her bodysuit won’t hide. “Jon will kill me. I’d be… _defiling_ his baby sister. I can’t do that.”

She feels her eyes grow stormy, a heat rising in her gut, and she tightens her fingers so that he’s pulled even closer, hips almost meeting hers. He sucks in a breath.

“Defiling implies that I’m a perfect little lady who’s waiting for her prince. Come on, Gendry. You’ve known me long enough to know that I’ve never been a perfect little lady.” And she dares to move even closer, teeth nearly meeting the lobe of his ear as she whispers her next words. “And for the record, I never intended for you to be a one night stand. Bold of you to presume.”

She can feel his breath, hot and heavy on her neck, and she’d like nothing more than to wrap her legs around his waist and for him to press his lips to hers, then to her neck and chest and work his way down right here, against Theon’s dingy kitchen sink.

But Jon is here, she knows for a fact, and she also knows that any man (let alone his roommate) that so much as touched her within his eyesight was almost certainly doomed.

She doesn’t want any interruptions.

“Arya.” He repeats her name again, and she rolls her eyes, leans back so that she can look right into his big Baratheon blues.

“I’m going to leave.” His brow wrinkles in confusion, but she continues before he can interrupt. “My apartment is an easy fifteen minute walk from here. I’m going to go, thank Theon graciously for hosting, and I’m going to leave and wait in the lobby of this apartment building for ten minutes, no less, no more.” For good measure, she leans forward and lets her lips graze so quickly over his. “Seven minutes after me should make you fairly inconspicuous. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

His eyebrows have gone from furrowed to just slightly raised, and she unhooks her fingers, pats him twice on the chest before nudging past him and walking towards the door.

“Oh, Gendry?” It’s an afterthought, and she turns at the same time he does, locking eyes again. From farther away, she could nearly laugh at how the combination of being shell-shocked and turned on looks on him.

“Mm?”

She smiles at him, all teeth.

“Call me anyone’s baby sister again and I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

And with that, she grabs her jacket from the pile near the door and slips out into the hallway.

Seven minutes later, he does too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much fun, writing these two.
> 
> Reviews make my heart sing!


	9. flirting

**8\. flirting**

Arya’s been over a lot more recently.

He’s not upset by it; quite the contrary, actually. His time with his sister has depleted significantly since she’s started university, and so coming home to see her sitting on his couch, hanging out with his roommate Gendry always manages to put a smile on his face.

She’s always smiling too, waves and leans into the back of the couch, and he’ll go to the kitchen and grab a snack and move to sit next to them, joining in whatever show or movie they’re watching.

The first time she was there, he was surprised. Now, he’s more surprised when he comes home to Gendry on his own.

Sometimes, Arya falls asleep when before whatever they’re watching ends. Jon usually doesn’t notice until everything is wrapped up, but then he’ll look over and see her, usually curled up at Gendry’s side, a hand on his chest and her head against his shoulder.

He always raises an eyebrow to his roommate, and Gendry always replies with a shrug.

(He pretends not to notice the way Gendry’s hand lingers, draws circles into the skin of his sister’s forearm, because there’s no way they’re flirting. Gendry and Arya? Hell would sooner freeze over.)

* * *

“You’re an absolute _idiot._ ”

Arya is fuming, nostrils flaring, and Gendry, surprisingly, has not surrendered his integrity yet.

He’s seen them argue before, about little, stupid things, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen either of them like _this_.

Sansa and Theon, sitting opposite him in the living room, are both trying their very best to ignore the yelling match in front of them.

Normally, dinners at Sansa’s were fairly low-profile affairs. This one, however, might be the one to wake the neighbours.

“Oh, _I’m_ the idiot?” Jon would probably punch him if he didn’t know that Arya’s fully capable of defending herself. “What the fuck were you thinking? Fighting a guy in the streets?”

“What, should I have just let him keep following those girls down the road?”

It had been one of the first things they had all noticed when she’d walked in late to Sansa’s apartment; bruised knuckles, broken skin, messy hair.

Gendry hadn’t let it sit for too long.

“You didn’t need to put yourself in danger—”

There is fire raging behind his sister’s eyes, and suddenly, Jon very much wants to pretend that he can’t hear a thing they’re yelling.

“I can take care of myself just _fine_ , Gendry Waters.” And with that she turns on her heel, stomps down the hall and slams the door of the spare bedroom.

Gendry stands for a minute, bright red and nearly panting, and then he goes down the hall after her.

Sansa stifles a laugh behind the back of her hand and leans into Theon, taking a sip of her wine.

“Those two are going to rip each other to shreds one day.”

Jon blinks, still slightly trying to wrap his head around the rapid living room yelling match.

“Do you think we should see if they’re okay?”

Sansa _really_ laughs this time.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go in there, Jon. I’d let them figure it out for themselves.”

His eyebrows furrow, and he decides that maybe downing the rest of his beer is the best thing he can do for himself at the moment.

(He thinks that when they leave the room together slightly breathless nearly half an hour later, he sees Gendry’s hand resting on the small of Arya’s back. But he looks back and it’s gone, and he resigns himself to the fact that his beer is making him loopy.)

* * *

They’ve started going to the bar, the three of them.

Every single time they go, Arya turns to Gendry and says “I swear to God, I’m drinking you under the table this time.”

And every single time, he nods and smiles sweetly and responds with “Of course you are, sweetheart.”

More often than not, Arya’s knocked two beers back within the first twenty minutes, and Gendry’s done the same. Arya’s words begin to slur, eyelids just slightly drooping, and he always sits next to her, crisp and clear as ever.

Sometimes, Jon joins in the bet, even though he knows that his sister’s light-weightedness will always deem her fit for nothing after a third drink.

And every time, when she’s tipsy, she’ll turn to Gendry, tap him on the nose, and say “I’ll get you next time.”

And he always smiles back at her, even when she looks away.

(Sometimes, Jon thinks he hears him murmur “I’m sure you will, love.”, but it’s always just slightly too quiet for him to fully decipher.)

* * *

Bran is looking at him funny.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

(He could be wrong, but Arya really might have just elbowed their little brother in the ribs.)

* * *

He’s on his way back from the grocery store when he sees them across the road, leaving a coffee shop that is often frequented by the university students in the area.

He’s about to raise his hand to wave, trying to figure out how to do that with the configuration of grocery bags he’s carrying, when he notices just how close the two of them are.

How their fingers are unmistakably interlaced with one another.

He freezes, watches as Arya turns to face him, rises to the balls of her feet and _presses her lips to his roommate’s._

As brief as the kiss is, Jon feels his heart stop.

His _roommate_ and his _sister_.

And suddenly, as much as he hates it, everything seems to fall into place.

They’ve been flirting in front of him for _months_ and he just hasn’t noticed.

He’s an absolute _moron_.

Gendry’s got his arms wrapped around her, is saying something that’s making her smile grow wider, and Jon has _no idea what to do_.

So he continues his walk before they notice him, jogs up the stairs to his apartment and throwing his groceries in the middle of the kitchen table.

It swiftly occurs to him what Gendry and Arya being together means (if they’re really together; are they really together?), and before he can talk himself out of it, he pulls out his phone and formulates a text message.

**jon** : please don’t tell me you’ve had sex in my apartment

It’s not even a full minute later when his phone dings.

**arya** : guess I won’t be telling you anything then

Gendry Waters is a dead man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow really knows nothing, I gotta say.


	10. lifting onto countertops

**9\. that thing where when they're kissing, the stronger one lifts the other up onto whatever surface they're near**

Gendry Waters has never been a remarkably graceful man.

He has a tendency to stumble over his own two feet, to knock things over by accident as though he forgets how far his arms can actually reach, to flop unceremoniously over on top of her while deep in his sleep.

It doesn’t bother her; it’s more just something she’s observed, occasionally makes fun of him for.

She likes that they’re opposites.

She likes that she’s nimble while he’s more heavy-footed, that she can dance circles around him while he turns and whacks something with unruly hands.

In complete honesty, she thinks that his occasional resemblance to an oaf is one of the most adorable things about him.

Besides, for what he lacks in grace, he makes up for in many other ways.

Precision, specifically. Of a meticulous fashion.

In fact, she could almost consider his hands to have an element of grace to their movement.

She’s seen him work in the metal-shop, forging and carving and creating the most intricately detailed pieces from what was once the dullest, most plain piece of metal she could imagine. His hands hold a sense of steadiness that’s unparalleled to anything she’s witnessed in her life.

The fact that they’re _her_ hands to hold gives her an unruly sense of pride.

They’ll walk down the street together and she silently revels in the fact that the most talented art-makers she’ll ever know are clasped between her fingers.

And then after his hands are his arms, muscular and strong and gifted with the ability to sweep Arya off of her feet despite whatever laughing indignation she’s spouting.

The combination of the two, of his talented hands and his powerful arms—

She would consider that almost deadly.

Because Gendry has the tendency to find her in the kitchen as she’s beginning to make coffee or in the bathroom as she’s brushing her teeth, to place those hands of his on her hips and begin nipping at her neck, up her jaw, behind her ear, leaving a trail of warmth that makes her toes begin to curl.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, takes care in nursing the pressure points that make her legs feel like jelly, and she always ends up turning so that her chest meets his, rises to the tips of her toes so that his mouth can unify with hers.

And without fail, his hands will reach around to firmly grasp the back of her thighs and he lifts her as if she doesn’t weigh a thing, places her on top of the kitchen or bathroom counter without so much as lifting his mouth from hers to come up for air.

More often than not, he’ll knock the toothbrush stand into the sink or even push a mug from the counter to the floor, clattering and smashing in a way that would have Arya fuming if he didn’t move one hand from her thigh and dip it surreptitiously beneath the waistline of her pants.

He knows how to work his hands, using his skill of precision in ways that make her grip his back with fingers like claws, make her writhe on the counter as he handles a completely different piece of art than his metalwork. His fingers play masterfully as he keeps his lips on her, either joined with hers or on her neck or her shoulders or down even _further_.

She cannot believe the magic, the pure unworldly ecstasy that he brings her on top of the surfaces in their apartment.

Gendry Waters may not be the most graceful man in the world, but Arya will praise his hands like they’re holy for as long as he continues to use them on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every drabble we stray further from God and closer to writing smut, I swear.
> 
> This one is short and sweet (?) and I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Reviews make me smile so big!


	11. full-ass down on one knee proposals

**10\. full-ass down on one knee proposals**

She’s wiping her stupid, idiotic tears that had absolutely _no right_ to fall when Sansa opens the door.

“Arya?” The immediate concern in her sister’s eyes makes her want to vomit all over her pretty little doormat. “What’s wrong?”

She looks like an absolute fucking disaster, she knows. The rain has soaked her down to her core, so much so that she’s shaking like a leaf, and her hair is completely plastered to the sides of her face. She had been in such a rush to leave her apartment that she’d forgotten a jacket, forgotten the storm raging outside, and hadn’t even had enough sense to grab as much as her phone.

She’d just _left_ , with absolutely no clue where she was heading, and somehow she’d ended up empty-handed, soaked, and _crying_ at her sister’s doorstep.

She’s never felt so pathetic in her life.

“Arya?” She blinks as Sansa repeats her name and folds her arms tightly.

“I went for a run.” Her voice is flat, and Sansa’s brow furrows, thoroughly unconvinced.

She’s not sure what she’s really trying to convince her of, anyways.

“In this rain?” She says nothing as Sansa looks her up and down, takes her whole, miserable self in. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Of course she knows. And Sansa can sense it, without a doubt. She’s always been able to sniff out a liar.

It’s quiet for a minute, Sansa looking at Arya and Arya looking at her shoes, and she can’t ignore the hot, bubbling feeling that she shouldn’t have come here, should’ve just kept running in the rain instead of directly to her sister’s stupid doorstep.

“You’re going to get sick if you keep those clothes on.” She pushes the door open behind her, and Arya’s heart _swells_. “Come on. We’ll talk later.”

She rushes past Sansa before she can register the tears brimming again at the corner of her eyes.

* * *

It’s only after she’s put on one of her sister’s old t-shirts that absolutely _dwarfs_ her and has a cup of tea clutched in her hand that Sansa questions her again.

“Is everything alright?”

It’s such a stupid question, because there’s no way in hell she would be here, doing this, if everything was alright, but she can’t make herself scoff.

Everything is alright, really. Everything should be better than alright, considering the circumstances.

And yet she’s here.

She sips her tea, lets the feeling of the hot liquid swim through her body before responding.

“Kind of.” The words tingle. “No. Yes. I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

Sansa moves to sit next to her on the couch, draws one knee up and rests her chin on top.

“What happened?” Her gaze still holds concern, along with the unique intensity that only Sansa seems to be capable of, and Arya knows she can’t lie, not to her.

“Gendry proposed.” It’s the first time she’s said it and it sounds _wrong_.

Her sister’s eyes widen, and her mouth opens and closes several times before anything actually comes out.

“He _proposed_?” She nods, eyes dropping into her cup and focusing on the dregs of tea-leaves floating at the surface. “Tonight? Earlier?”

“Like half an hour ago.” Sansa’s eyes somehow grow even bigger, and she doesn’t miss how they move to her left hand for less than a second before meeting hers.

“What are you doing _here_?”

“I said no.” She knows she doesn’t need to vocalize it, knows that Sansa’s already taken notice of the absence of a ring on a certain finger, but she says it anyways. “We fought. I needed to leave.”

“Did he hurt you?” Her sister’s voice is level, balanced, and Arya could almost let out a hollow laugh.

“It’s Gendry. I don’t think he could hurt me if he tried.” Her words are dull, humorless, and she _hates_ the way her throat threatens to close when she says his name. “All he did was go down on one knee.”

Her sister moves to place one of her hands over Arya’s, and she realizes with a jolt that it’s quivering, making her cup rattle.

“Arya.” Her name is soft and smooth on Sansa’s lips, and she tries to concentrate on the warmth of her sister’s hand, tries to ground herself against the hysteria that is pounding dully at the edges of her mind.

“I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t say yes.” She wants so badly to squeeze her eyes shut but every time she does all she can see is _him_ , _there_. “He had this whole speech and then he got down on his knee and pulled out a ring and he was so _happy_ , Sansa, and I couldn’t say it.”

“Why?” Her voice isn’t prodding or invasive, only gentle, and she _will not cry, not again, not tonight._

“I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to be a wife.” Sansa smiles sadly, wraps her thumb around Arya’s hand so that she can squeeze it.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a wife, Arya. I promise, it’s really not half bad.”

“I _know_ that. I just—” Her voice catches, and she takes a shaking, frustrated breath. “Things are good already. Really good. They don’t need to change. _I don’t want them to change_.”

“Marriage doesn’t change a relationship—”

“Of course it does, Sansa.” She pulls her hand harshly from her sister’s grasp, flinching as the hot tea splashes onto her fingers. “It changes everything.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I _do.”_ Everything is harsh now, and she can feel the cold seeping back in. “We’d get married and then he’d realize that I’m not the kind of woman he wants as a wife and that _I’m not good enough for him_ and then he’ll leave and it’d just hurt us both too much and I don’t want to go through that. I don’t want _him_ to go through that.”

“You don’t know any of that.” Sansa’s voice is harsh now too, and she’s shaking her head.

“I do.”

“You don’t. You’ve made it all up. It’s all just in your head, Arya. All of it.” She puts her knee down, moves closer. “You don’t think you’re good enough for him? That’s a load of bullshit. Arya, Gendry adores you. He looks like he would move the stars and the sun if you asked him to. Fuck, you could run him over in a truck twice and he’d say thank you.”

“That doesn’t matter—”

“ _Of course it matters_. You two wouldn’t have still been together if he thought you weren’t good enough for him, or if you thought he wasn’t good enough for you.” She takes a breath, takes Arya’s cup from her palms and places it on the coffee table. “It’s human nature to be scared, Arya. Everyone is paranoid about something. But you can’t let it get in the way of beautiful, happy things.” She takes her sister’s hands, runs her thumbs over her knuckles before holding them tight. “Allow yourself to be happy. Give yourself the opportunity.”

Her throat is burning and her eyes are watering and her stomach feels as though it’s been punched.

“He’s such a good man, Sansa.”

“And you’re a good woman.” Sansa’s voice is unwavering. “I’m not saying you need to say yes. That isn’t my decision to make. But you left. You _ran_. I’m assuming you went without any sort of explanation like this, and I can bet you that hurt him more than you saying no.”

The shame is so hot in her chest that she can hardly breathe because Sansa is right. Of course she’s right.

She’s hurt him while trying so hard to shield him from pain, from heartache.

He’s going to hate her.

“No, he won’t.” Sansa reaches and places a hand on her cheek before she even realizes that she spoke her last thought aloud. “He’s probably upset, and you do owe him an explanation, but he won’t hate you. I don’t think he ever could.”

There’s a moment where it’s quiet again, where she tries so hard to just breathe.

“He’s not asking you to change, Arya.”

“I know.”

“And if he ever does, then you can worry.” Her sister brushes a damp hair from her forehead and give her a small smile. “But I really don’t think he’ll ever do that.”

There’s another pause, and then Arya pulls her into a fierce hug.

* * *

Everything is just the way it was when she left, save for the unlit candle on the kitchen table.

She’s quiet as she enters the apartment, closes the door behind her slowly and removing her shoes before padding across the floor in borrowed socks.

He’s sitting on the couch, starring at the television even though there’s nothing on, and she feels her heart shatter into a million pieces onto the tile floor.

“Gendry?”

He starts at her voice, no more than a whisper, and when he turns to her, his eyes are rimmed red.

She wants nothing more than to run to him and throw her arms around him, take back the past evening and dry his tears and kiss him and love him and show him how utterly important he is to her now.

But she can’t do that. The past is in the past.

So she walks towards him, moves to kneel in front of his spot as his eyes follow.

It’s dead silent; even the rain has ceased it’s pounding on the windows.

“Where did you go?” His voice is low, husky, thick with some sort of deep sorrow that she’s never heard before, and it takes everything she has not to burst into a hysterical mess.

“Sansa’s.” Her voice is thick too. “I forgot my phone. I’m sorry. I’m _so sorry_.”

She puts her hand on his, grips it like a vice as she feels him try to flinch away.

“Arya, _please_ —”

“Listen.” The word quakes, and he tries to pull away again but she doesn’t loosen her grip, not for a second. “Please, Gendry, I know I don’t deserve it, but please just listen to me. Just for a minute.”

He’s still stiff for a moment, almost stony, and then by some grace of the gods he softens, just barely.

She takes it.

“I’m sorry. About leaving, about fighting, about hurting you, all of it. I’m so sorry, and I know it’s so stupid and irrelevant to say that because I’ve already done it and made you feel pain but I am.” She takes a deep, shaking breath and places her other hand to envelope his. “I said no because I’m scared. I’m scared of losing you.”

“You wouldn’t be losing me—”

“You’re such an incredible man, Gendry, and I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life, and I don’t think I’ll ever love like this ever again, and that’s terrifying because—” Her breathe hitches in her throat and she has to take a full cycle of breath before she goes on. “—because if anything happens to _you_ or to _us_ I think it’ll break me. I think it’ll kill me.”

And then it’s there, between them, hanging in the air, and he’s crying, really crying, and she is too.

But he hasn’t pulled away and so she clings to him like a lifeline.

And then—

“Arya, there is not a thing in this world that could ever make me stop loving you. Not a single thing.”

The hysteria that’s been looming over her lands, and she _sobs_. Great, heaving, body-wracking sobs.

He pulls her into him, holds her right against his chest so that her tears soak the collar of his shirt and his hands can smooth her hand, rub her back, keep her close.

She is so sorry. She is so lucky.

She is so loved. Somehow so very deeply loved.

She cries _I’m sorry_ ’s into his shirt and he whispers that it’s alright, she doesn’t need to apologize, nothing will ever change them, nothing will ever stop them.

And it all becomes suddenly, blindingly clear.

She pulls away from his shirt, tears still falling and breath still erratic but so sure.

“Ask me again.” And she knows she’s pushing her luck, knows that she’s asking for too much and that he probably will never ask her again, not with what her reaction was before.

But it’s Gendry.

Gendry, who loves her unconditionally.

Gendry, who without a single hesitation, leaves her on the couch and slips back down onto one knee in one, almost graceful movement.

“Will you marry me?”

And she’s nodding profusely before he even starts, kissing the abrupt, shell-shocked grin off of his face before it even fully forms, and he’s got her again, holding her in his lap and kissing the tears from her face and laughing and somehow she’s laughing too.

Somehow, the night’s rhythm has been restored.

Somehow, she is suddenly so, so incredibly happy.

And this time, she allows herself to be just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus Christ that was some sort of rollercoaster whirlwind all over the place late night piece of writing.  
> This is so dramatic and pretty angst-filled and I'm not really sure how I feel about it but hey, why not? Didn't mean for it to be 2000 words but hey, why not? Pretty out of character but eh! Sometimes people are dramatic!
> 
> Reviews make me smile and write like a speed demon!
> 
> Also, thank you all so much to everyone who's been reading/reviewing/leaving kudos on this crazy mish-mash drabble work of mine. I love you all so very much!!!


	12. 11. communicating without words

  1. communicating without words



It’s all in the head tilt.

She’s never been one for subtlety, not really. At least, that was what his first impression was.

She was boisterous and loud and rowdy and loved to scrap with her brothers and bicker with her sister and cross her arms and stick out her tongue and get mad and get excited and be so blatantly outwards about her thoughts and feelings that he wasn’t sure if there was anything left to be hidden underneath her loud, rowdy, boisterous layer of being.

Arya Stark knows what she wants, and she’s never been one to squash her opinions down inside. That’s something that he’s been aware of from the moment he met her.

What he’s learned about Arya, however, is that she is a master at hiding things.

If Arya doesn’t want anyone to know how she’s feeling or what she’s thinking, they won’t. End of story.

At least, that’s what he thought at first.

He still hasn’t quite decided if it’s his observance falling deeper than before, or if it’s her beginning to let her guard down, but he’s gotten quite good at reading Arya like a novel. A large, vastly complicated novel.

She’s still incredibly secretive, still well versed in the art of concealing emotion, but he’s able to notice the way her breath changes when she’s upset, the way her eyebrow arches for only a second before returning to its place of poise. He notices the way her head cocks to the left when she doesn’t believe something, or the way she steals a glance at the ground, chin pointing momentarily down, when she’s not completely telling the truth.

It’s like a secret language, and there’s a warmth that spreads from his core when he thinks about how she’s let him learn it.

So of course he notices when she’s slightly off during their dinner at Sansa’s, the way she’s biting the corner of her lip and keeping her gaze steadily towards her plate when she’s not being spoken to.

She’s inhaling through her nose, taking deep, slow breaths, and it’s definitely not up to par with the level of subtlety she has regarding her secrets.

Maybe it’s that. Or maybe it’s because he’s in on this one, too.

And he knows exactly what’s going to happen as she stands abruptly, excuses herself from the table and graciously but quickly makes her way down the hall towards the bathroom.

Sansa’s brow furrows, and she looks across the food to Gendry.

“Is she alright?”

“I think so.” He tries not to let concern radiate through his tone, tries to keep it level like Arya is so good at doing. Theon’s looking at him too, and he can feel a flush beginning at the back of his neck. “She hasn’t been feeling the greatest for the last few days. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s caught the flu, with all the work she’s been putting in.”

It’s a weak lie, he knows, and he can just imagine Arya rolling her eyes.

But it’s the faintly muffled sound of gagging that pulls him back, and he stands, offers the two a smile.

“I’ll go check on her.”

Sansa nods, concern written across her features, and he moves swiftly towards the bathroom and out of eyesight before he can say something stupid.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and so he pushes it open ever so slightly, pokes his head around the corner.

She’s right where he’d suspected, kneeling over the toilet basin with one hand clutching her hair back from her face and the other holding onto the seat. She looks up at him, pale with eyes watering, and offers him a weak smile.

“Hey, love.” He says, entering the room and closing the door behind him. “It’s still bad, then?”

She nods, and he moves to kneel beside her, replacing the hand in her hair with his own just in time for her to lean forward and release what’s left of the contents of her stomach. His other hand rubs slow circles on her back, and he tries not to wince as she coughs.

It feels like the longest minute before she pushes herself away from the basin, leans right into his chest.

“Still bad.” Her voice is raw, and she sighs. “I was really hoping that everything wouldn’t act up tonight.”

He kisses her forehead, leans over to grab a glass of water from the countertop and hand it to her.

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes narrow, and she takes a sip of the liquid before responding.

“You don’t need to be sorry. This isn’t your fault.”

“It is, actually.” And despite it all, he smiles. “At least half of it is, anyways.”

She rolls her eyes at that, taking another gulp of water before placing the glass on the tile beside them.

“I forget sometimes that I can actually blame you for this, Baratheon.” He smirks, reaches and tucks an unruly hair behind her ear.

“I’m all yours to torment, Stark.” If she wasn’t directly against his chest, he’d have his hands up in mock surrender. “But I don’t think that’s newfound information.”

Arya sighs again, eyelids fluttering shut as her cheek falls against his collarbone, and his lips graze the top of her head ever so softly.

“We can go home.” His words are quieter, slightly more serious, because he can see how pale she is, can feel her full weight (which granted, is not too much) trusting his for support. “I told Sansa and Theon that you could have caught the flu. We could make an exit and have a night in.”

“No, we should stay.” How she manages to sound so defiant with her eyes closed slumped on the floor of the bathroom, he’ll never know. “Wouldn’t want Sansa to get more suspicious than she probably is already. I’ve already had a tough enough time convincing her that I can’t drink wine because I’m on a cleanse.”

She’s so determined to keep things a secret, as quiet as they can be before everything changes astronomically, and it’s the first time he’s watched her fight so hard to hold everything to herself. Before, he’s been the one that things have been withheld from, and this time he’s on the opposite side of the story.

He understands this secret, though. It would be a bold-faced lie to say that Gendry was not, upon first discovery of the conception of their baby, completely and wholly terrified beyond belief.

It went beyond the inherent fear of becoming a father; of failing Arya or a child, _their_ child, because of his lack of skills or knowledge or sheer stupidity. It was more than the occasional, overdramatic chill that would roll down his spine when he thought of Jon or Robb finding out what he did to their baby sister, of the punishment that they would see fit for his actions. Despite all of the reasons to be worried, Gendry was focused in on one, fiery, little thing.

Arya, upon their first scan, had been categorized as what the doctor referred to as a ‘medium to high risk pregnancy’ after an examination of her petite stature and by connection her myriad of scars that she carried from a past that she barely spoke of, and his mind hasn’t stopped running since.

And as cool as she is about it, he knows that she is just as terrified (if not even more) than he is.

So they’re keeping the pregnancy quiet, agreed upon not telling anyone before she reaches twelve weeks as per the doctor’s recommendations, and so far there have been little to no hiccups in their plan.

That is, until tonight.

“I can’t wait until we tell them.” The words slip out unexpectedly, and he braces to feel her tense up, to turn around and reprimand him about why they’re waiting, even though they both fully understand the reason.

But she doesn’t.

“I can’t either.” Her response is soft, and he kisses her forehead, pleased to see a bit of colour returning to her cheeks. “Two more weeks, yeah?”

“Two more weeks.” He repeats it and it sounds like a promise. “Two more weeks until it’s really real.”

Her nose crinkles, and she tilts her head to look back at him.

“It’s been pretty real so far, thank you very much.” Her words hold no malice, though. “More like two weeks until my brothers castrate you.”

He can’t help it; he lets out an audible groan, and she answers with laughter, pressing a finger to his lips in a lackluster attempt to shush him.

“They’re going to think we left to fuck in the bathroom if you continue with that.”

“Maybe that’s what we should let them believe.” She rolls her eyes again, reaching back and pushing herself up with the help of the counter.

“Maybe we should get back to them before they think anything at all.” And she offers him a hand, which he takes to stand next to her. “What do we think? Flu or food poisoning from lunch?”

“Your choice, love.” He pulls her in and presses one more kiss to her cheek, holds her close for just a second longer. “You sure you don’t want to go home?”

She nods, pulling back so that it’s just their hands interwoven.

“Not yet.” And ever so quickly, as he moves to open the door, she presses a kiss to the base of his chin. “I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else, you know that?”

“I know.” With that, he pulls the door open, and they move back to the dining room, hand in hand, ready to face Sansa’s questions as best as they can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey gang!
> 
> I know, I know, it's been so incredibly long since I posted on here. With everything going on in the world I've really been getting the itch to write during some of this spare time, and about half of this piece was written almost a year ago before my life got wild! I do not by any means think this is my best work but I wanted to post it anyways because we always need a little more Gendrya fluff in the world.
> 
> Let me know if there's anything you want me to write about during this crazy period of time! I would love love love to write more.
> 
> I hope you're all well and healthy as well as your loved ones! 
> 
> xoxo
> 
> J


	13. being cool and collected with most people (except each other)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's back again!
> 
> This one is a bit of a precursor to last chapter, and contains a hell of a lot of cliched melodrama. I'm still definitely getting used to writing these character voices again so bare with me as I get used to them again. Nevertheless, I hope y'all enjoy!

  1. Being cool and collected with most people except each other.



“Holy shit.”

“I know.”

“Holy _shit._ ”

“Yeah.”

Her sense of timing could be completely wrong, but she’s fairly certain that those two words were all Gendry’s been able to muster in the last five minutes.

She doesn’t really blame him, though.

She’d felt the same way when she’d put the puzzle pieces together herself.

But now, sitting cross-legged on the sofa watching Gendry try and process the fact that they’ve really accidentally made a baby (a _baby_ ), the feeling of hot, bubbling panic is rapidly approaching the surface of her mind once again.

Not that it really went away since she found out, anyways.

He’s looking at her but he’s not at the same time, eyes glazed over as hers are full of intent, trying to find something to pull him back. He doesn’t do this sort of thing in front of anyone but her, she’s noticed, and it’s equally as flattering as it is frustrating. Because, as valid as his shock is (she knows it better than anyone), she would be lying if she said that she kind of needed to hear him say anything other than-

“Holy shit.”

And, for whatever reason, the panic starts to bubble over.

“Is that all you have to say?”

Her voice is higher than normal, despite her conscious effort to keep it smooth, and he blinks, the glaze momentarily disappearing as he fixates on her again.

“What?”

“‘Holy shit’? Is that an all-encompassing statement for you right now?”

He blinks again, moves to put a hand on her thigh but she’s standing before he can extend his reach, arms now crossed in lieu of legs.

“Don’t touch me because you feel like it’s _the right thing to do_ _right now_ , Gendry. Tell me about what you feel.”

He’s looking at her with big eyes, mouth opening and closing as he tries to find a way to articulate how he feels, and if this were about anything else, if she didn’t have her own panic threatening to explode and burn down everything it came into contact with, she would be holding his hand and helping him walk through whatever sort of path he needed to find the right words.

Not this time, though. This time is astronomically different.

“How do you feel?” And she’s shaking her head before he can finish, arms tightening across her chest.

“No, no, no. Not how I feel. You can’t base your answer off of mine. That’s not how this works.”

“How this works?” There’s more behind his words, then. “I’m sorry, is there some sort of manual that I’ve been missing as to what you telling me you’re pregnant should look like? Because I would _love_ to have a look over that, if I can have a chance.”

“It isn’t a difficult question, Gendry.” And she _hates_ the way her lip quivers before she can still it.

“Of course it is!”

“No, it’s not!” They’re both raising their voices now, eyes locked with each other and it feels as though the energy in the space between them could be used to power an entire town. “Anything beyond ‘holy shit’ will suffice. Literally anything.”

He runs a hand through his hair, messing it, and exhales, looks right _into_ her.

“A baby.”

“No, a chimpanzee.”

“ _Arya_.” She purses her lips, arms now less crossed and more wrapped completely around her midsection.

“Yes, a baby. Well observed.”

His eyes fall down to her abdomen, lingering there as a breath from direct eye contact, and it’s like she can feel the heat of his gaze right through her t-shirt.

“How long have you known?” Her nose wrinkles instinctively, and she also shifts the focus of her eyes, looking more at her feet than at him.

“A few days.” He inhales sharply, she can hear it, and it suddenly, overwhelmingly feels as though her arms are wrapped tightly around her in order to brace for some sort of impact.

“A few days.” The words sit in the air between them before he continues. “Arya, why didn’t you tell me?”

“How do you feel about it?” She repeats the words from earlier but keeps her eyes towards her socks.

“Honestly? I don’t know why you waited days before telling me anything. We’re _partners_ , Arya. We’re each other’s-”

“About the _baby_ , Gendry, for fucks sake!” She whips her head back up, looks at him with a ferocity numbed only by the stupid, stupid tears that are welling up in the corner of her eyes. “You still haven’t said anything even remotely coherent about any of it, you know? Maybe I didn’t tell you right away because I wanted to know how you would react to it first!”

He’s looking at her directly again, doesn’t say a thing, and she sniffs, hastily rubs her cheek to remove the stupid _stupid_ tear that had started making its way to her chin.

They’ve never really talked about it, not properly. Not with any sort of urgency, anyway. To her, their romance was a love letter to the present moment, living day to day instead of waiting for tomorrow or the days following. In her life, she’s learned to linger and enjoy, to let the dice roll on their own time instead of vigorously shaking them and yearning for what was to come. They had never been in any sort of hurry, not really.

So they haven’t really talked about it.

And now it feels like all of the doubt, all of the uncertainty, has come to rest directly on top of her chest.

Because now there’s a deadline. A tangible one.

“It’s scary.” His words pull her back, and she’s suddenly, acutely aware of how his eyes have softened. “I’d be lying if I said I’m not scared. I can’t imagine what it would be like for you.” He reaches forward and slowly starts to work on unlatching her arms from their vice-like grip on her sides. She lets them loosen, lets the warmth of his hands melt the muscles from their tense resolve until he’s untangled them and holds both of her hands in his.

“That’s why I was asking, love. Because I know whatever I’m feeling, you’re feeling at least tenfold.”

She’s almost criminally good at keeping her guard up around everyone in her life except for him.

She nods, inhales and then exhales as his thumbs draw circles against her soft skin.

“I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t excited. I mean, being a dad? It’s definitely something that’s crossed my mind before. But,” And he pulls her closer, so that he has to tilt his chin to keep his eyes on hers and wraps his arms around her waist. “it’s up to you, whatever you want to do. No strings attached. Promise.”

She’s nodding the whole time, and now there are more than a few tears dripping down her cheeks, a couple splashing onto Gendry’s forehead, and he laughs, reaches up and rests his palm against her cheek.

“So now that I’ve told you how I feel, how about you tell me about you?”

And he pulls her ever so slightly so that she’s drawn to sit in his lap, placing a kiss to her temple as her face becomes even with his.

He is so good. Too good. Almost criminally good.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is so soft, now.

“Don’t be sorry.” And his is even softer. “Let me into that mind of yours, hey?”

It’s all about to become very, very real.

“A baby.”

“No, a chimpanzee.”

“Shut up.”

“Fine.”

“ _Our_ baby.” She says it like she’s testing the taste of the words on her lips, and he smiles.

“Doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world.” And now it’s her turn to lean forward, kiss the tip of his nose before sighing into his embrace.

“It really doesn’t.”

It really doesn’t. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm liking being back, I have to say.
> 
> Your reviews make my heart glow! I'm taking note of all your prompt suggestions (quarantine here we go!) and I'm also always accepting more!
> 
> xoxo
> 
> J

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any drabble/prompt suggestions, feel free to leave them in the comments! I would love love love to hear what you all want to read.
> 
> xoxo


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